


"Get on your knees."

by BID



Series: Dishonored Prompt Oneshots [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Betrayal, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Daud is not ok, Fluff and Angst, Loyalty, M/M, Strangulation, light dub-con hints but nothing actually happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 13:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BID/pseuds/BID
Summary: He worries what Thomas’ closeness to Lurk indicates.They hadn’t been close in any social sense. She’d always been annoyed at his excessive commonsense and orderliness, he’d always hated her impulsiveness, disrespect, and juvenile spite. Both had been close to him, but where Thomas was most involved in managing the theory and planning of jobs and budgets as Daud’s right hand in the office, Lurk had been the equivalent in the field. Thomas has shown ambition in the way he always strives for perfection, though it’d never rung as strongly as Billies, but then, Billie had never been quiet in anything except her movements.Had they been close because they had the same plans, albeit in different manners?Was it because Daud himself held them close and in high esteem?“What will you do now,” Daud asks him, trying to sound casual.





	"Get on your knees."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ExultedShores](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/gifts).

> Prompt fill for Exultedshores, requesting Thomas Daud and the prompt: "Get on your knees."
> 
> Please make sure to read the tags.

Her betrayal follows him everywhere. 

It stings at the back of his throat like bile, like a knife between his ribs, even if she’d never finished the motion. And, for the first time in years, he’s started looking over his shoulder again, regardless of him being on base or not. While they clear the bodies, while they create fortifications, while they arrange new rotations and tend to the wounded. 

While Daud stands in his dark office late, late into the night.

When he calls upon the arcane bond, feels out where Lurk's thread had been, where he’d torn it out of himself just after he’d stripped her of her rank and gear and sent her away to climb through Dunwall’s ruins on her own power, it’s raw and bleeding. He hadn’t done it properly, hadn’t followed the proper procedure, hadn’t had time to prepare mentally and magically for it, it’s not supposed to be done that way. 

But just as one isn’t supposed to yank at a hagfish that has sunk its teeth into you, it’s hard to react rationally when it happens. 

He needs to pick a new second, he needs to re-establish order, he needs to be rid of those threads that are weak with doubt or greed in the web before they tear larger holes, he needs to rearrange those that remain to fit back into the pattern that was disrupted by those that were killed, like pruning, he supposes. 

Fucking _pruning_. Ironic, considering it’s _Delilah_ who’d started it, the Outsider technically, though Daud won’t lay blame on the god this time, doesn’t actually know when Lurk had gotten in contact with her, before or after, it doesn’t matter with how fast she’d fallen after eight years under his wing.

He’d picked her for her tenacity, her skill, her intellect. Had seen her ambition, and somewhere on the way forgot that it doesn’t exclude him. 

Though he has to wonder what she’d expected to do after she’d usurped his position with the Whalers powerless, including herself. What was she going to do with people who’d relied on magic for their strength, endurance, agility, discretion for years, some for over a decade? What did she think would happen if that magic was gone? Did she really think the Whalers would be the same without him as their source of power?

Daud sighs, pulls off his gloves and places them next to him where he is leaned against the desk. The freezing night air fogs up his breath and sends his mark steaming as he touches upon every thread, shakes and twists and prods and tries to get a new feel of each respective Whaler, but at every turn the sensations are overshadowed by the gaping hole that pours out power like a burst pipe.

He tries to go through the motions of retrieving a bond, of capping it off, reeling it in, but there isn’t enough left to get a proper grasp and it only rattles on those that had been marked close to her. 

The nearest is Thomas, the older one, that is, who’d gotten marked the same day as her when they’d been elevated from recruits to novices, and though Thomas had been named a master in just a few months on account of his experience, where she’d taken much longer on account of her young age, their positions had never changed in the web as most people's do. Always firmly stuck do Daud’s right, close to the centre of it all. 

Tentatively he feels along Thomas’ connection and finds it pale and weak but unshaken, a few others are affected by the outpour of mana that exhausts Daud to the core, but none nearly as much as Thomas. Daud wonders if he can transverse. 

He wonders why Thomas has not informed him of it yet. 

With a clench of his fist, he yanks Thomas into place, has the assassin stumble before him a mere moment later, though he catches his balance quickly and straightens to his full height, salutes him with a fist to his chest. 

“Sir.”

Daud still stands leaned against his desk, not sure if Thomas can even see him without his void vision and the all the lights out, only the half-obscured shape of the full moon throwing a bare minimum of light into the office, and the ember faint glow of Daud’s mark. 

“Take off your mask,” Daud orders quietly, voice cold and distant even to himself. 

Without protest Thomas pulls down his hood and unclasps the mask, calm and confident, right until Daud holds his hand out for it and takes it from him, placing it on the desk next to his gloves, next to the pile of Billie's possessions. He can see Thomas’ fists clench and how he draws his lower lip between his teeth. 

If the light was any better he would’ve probably seen his face turn even paler than it already is under the freckles. 

When Daud holds out his marked hand, glowing a bright, bitter green that he knows Thomas has seen before when dismissing Whalers, the way he hadn’t taken the time and focus to do to Lurk, he thinks he sees him sway, sees his eyes turn wide and they shine strangely in the light. But once again Thomas complies, pulls off his gloves, steps closer and places his left hand in Daud’s, palm up. 

His knuckles are ice cold and his fingers steady, though his breath stutters as he swallows, licks his lips, but all Thomas says, when Daud clenches his fist around the back of his hand, is a quiet, resolute, “Sir,” that seems neither a plea nor a protest.

Daud’s mark burns bright, and while he can tell that Thomas is reluctant to let go of the magic, he doesn’t cling to it either, doesn’t try to squirrel any away for himself, doesn’t fight Daud, and then the glow subsides and the thread is properly severed the way it’s meant to be.

“Sir,” Thomas says again, voice shaky but tone resolute. He wipes at his cheek. 

Daud looks down at his mark, feels along the web and is pleased to notice that properly closing up the closest bond has also capped off the space Lurk had occupied. It feels strange to be missing Thomas too now, throwing things off-balance even worse, but it had been necessary. 

He worries what Thomas’ closeness to Lurk indicates. 

They hadn’t been close in any social sense. She’d always been annoyed at his excessive commonsense and orderlyness, he’d always hated her impulsiveness, disrespect, and juvenile spite. Both had been close to him, but where Thomas was most involved in managing the theory and planning of jobs and budgets as Daud’s right hand in the office, Lurk had been the equivalent in the field. Thomas has shown ambition in the way he always strives for perfection, though it’d never rung as strongly as Billies, but then, Billie had never been quiet in anything except her movements. 

Had they been close because they had the same plans, albeit in different manners? 

Was it because Daud himself held them close and in high esteem? 

“What will you do now,” Daud asks him, trying to sound casual, like the unbalanced bonds don’t make him feel like his insides are sloshing about like a ship at high sea, while he leans over to the flax-oil lamp and lights it, hoping that seeing the room will reduce the vertigo.

“Whatever you command, sir,” Thomas' strained reply is immediate, and though his form looks stooped, as if Daud had taken more from him than just magic, as if he’d placed a weight on him or torn a structure away, Thomas has his fist on his chest and bows like he hasn’t done since he was a novice.

As he straightens up Daud observes him, considers, wonders if Thomas really would, if he'd leave if Daud commanded, if he would follow an order to finish what Billie had failed to do, if he would- 

"Get on your knees," the order comes out of Daud on a whim, watches as Thomas' sinks down to his knees, elegant as ever without protest or grimace, placing them to bracket Daud's boots. Thomas sinks further to sit on his heels, places his hands on his knees and looks straight forward for a moment, perfectly aligned with Daud's crotch. 

When he turns his head to look up at Daud, there is no ambiguity in his expression. No worry, no reluctance, no dread or disgust or displeasure. Only the absolute, clear focus that he always offers Daud, confidence in his orders, and it- 

It does something to him, catches Daud's breath for a split second, his hand is in Thomas' hair before he can question the motion. On the top, it feels winter-cold, but as he digs his fingers into the blonde curls, he feels the warmth radiating from Thomas like a balm against his ice-cold skin (and Daud's can't remember the last time he's felt that, short of hot fresh blood burning through his gloves). He grabs it in a fist and tilts Thomas' head further back, pulls him closer, less than a handsbreadth from his body, places his marked hand against the exposed throat. Curves his palm under Thomas' chin, his thumb across Thomas' mouth. 

He drags his finger down slowly, watching his lips part, feels a hot breath wash over his skin.

The expression on Thomas' face is serene. The image before Daud nearly _obscene_, kneeling, eyes focused, mouth open and lips full and red from when he'd bitten them, tongue wet and pink just behind his teeth. 

He looks ready for Daud to press into his mouth, he looks ready for Daud to claim him, to ruin him, and Daud- Daud finds himself at attention, finds himself _wanting_ to in such a way he never does, not in years, not for just any pretty face, loyal or not. 

This isn't right, this _can't_ be right. Who would just take that kind of order, who would- 

Daud's hands wrap around his pale neck and close like a vice, as they have on others dozens of times before, watches Thomas' eyes widen in shock, his throat flexes, trying to draw breath open-mouthed, but then, he focuses back on Daud. His hands still in place on his knees, holding themselves in place with white-knuckled determination. 

Thomas' chest shudders, trying to force air past his hangs, Daud's grip is too tight for a proper gag reflex, and in the back of his head he counts how long it's safe, counts how long until it won't be safe, is well aware when it stops _feeling_ safe, but while Thomas' face is turning red and his body shivers, shakes and strains, half aborted intuitive movement, he only looks up, like he will very well let Daud strangle him if only Daud orders it with the unforgiving grip of his hands. 

Moments tick by, the lamplight flickers out under a gust of wind.

Will he? Will Thomas really let himself be strangled to death without protest, just because it'd Daud doing it? Does he have such faith in a man this corrupt, with this much blood on his hands, that he trusts Daud will spare him? It seems wrong, it seems impossible, he wants to let him breathe, make Thomas explain himself, but he can't seem to-

Thomas' eyes start watering. 

Daud knows he must be dizzy by now, starting to get disoriented but he still looks at Daud as neutral as someone suffocating can, doesn't struggle if he can stop it. Doesn’t fight it when his weight tilts in Daud's hands, losing balance, his eyes squeeze shut, his expression is pained and Daud wants to let him go. Let go. 

_Just Let Go._

He opens his eyes again to face Daud, his expression almost relaxed, almost calm until his eyes tilt up and-

Daud pulls away.

His hands finally unclench, carefully hold Thomas by the shoulders instead. Daud stares down at him, while Thomas shakes and coughs, draws ragged breath after breath with his forehead braced against Daud's thigh, his hands clenched in Daud's coat as if he seeks his comfort and protection _even now_, even after- 

Daud clamps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from speaking, to stop whatever noise builds in his throat, the world seems to sway with vertigo, with the turmoil of his mind, with the realisation he’d been about to kill the most loyal man he knows, has known for years, and Daud's knees give. 

He finds himself sliding down the side of his desk, his legs bracketing Thomas' hips and he pulls him close, cradles the back of his head to press Thomas' face, wet with tears, against the crook of Daud's neck, the other clenched into the back Thomas' coat. 

Thomas sighs and Daud shakes, from his breath and jaw to his hands and even his legs, his limbs feel cold as ice and his fingertips tingle with numbness even though he can still feel the heat of Thomas’ neck beneath them. "You lunatic," he hisses out between clenched teeth, presses his face to the side of Thomas' head, "why would you- I couldn't let go, why didn't you stop me, why would you _let_ me?!"

"You were afraid," Thomas replies, voice hoarse, faint, reedy and strained, completely unrecognizable as his, if Daud didn't feel his mouth move against his collar, "of me."

He coughs again, and Daud finds himself hold onto him tighter. Finds Thomas leaning his weight into Daud’s chest and his fingers curled into Daud’s collar. 

“I almost killed you,” Daud whispers, disbelief clear in his voice. 

“But you didn’t,” Thomas croaks back. 

“I spared _Billie_ after everything she’s- I almost killed _you_ for-”

“Daud.”

“- for no damned _reason_. Why are you still _here_ Thomas?!”

Thomas’ laugh turns into another coughing fit, but even once it subsides he doesn’t speak, only clings, presses the bridge of his nose against Daud’s throat, the line of his brow against Daud’s jaw. 

“Do you want it back?” Daud asks after a long minute of silence, the moon shines milky white into the office as the cloud cover finally breaks. Daud sees how the words curl his breath in the cold, can see where Thomas’ rises too. 

“Please,” Thomas sighs and shifts his weight as if to lean back, but Daud doesn’t let him, selfishly keeps him wrapped tight in this strange embrace, feels like he himself, needs the reassurance that yes, Thomas is still alive, still here, still-

-still his and most importantly _breathing_.

Thomas doesn’t protest it, only seems to lean more of his weight into Daud after shifting one of his legs, fits the angle of his body better under the curve of Daud’s arm, holds out his left hand. 

The arcane bond settles on him quickly and easily like a well-worn glove but it now feels strong, healthy, heavy with power, with loyalty, with trust. 

Only now does Thomas truly sink against him with a sigh, the last of the tension removed, flexes his fingers and tugs for Daud’s attention, who only wraps around him tighter. 

“You’re the only one I’d gladly go down on my knees for,” Thomas whispers, “I thought you knew, everyone seemed to.”

“You-”, Daud blinks, wishes he could look down at Thomas, whose face is still pressed into Daud’s throat, “_Oh._ I didn’t realise.”

“You never showed interest, I wasn’t about to make you uncomfortable with my presence.”

“You never have,” Daud replies quickly, “and I can’t say I was,” he swallows, “averse to it.”

Thomas laughs faintly, “Well, next time do keep your hands in my hair, yes?”


End file.
